Category Archives: International incidents

Mama Paquita: “Why would a baby need a sombrero?” and other problematic questions.

This isn’t a real post.  It was a rambling email I was writing to my sister and then it sort of got away from me and so I decided to flesh it out and share it here because maybe we weren’t the only ones who were taught this song in school.  You can ignore it if you want.

When I was little there was this song called “Mama Paquita” that we’d have to sing in music class.  According to our music books, it was a 1930’s Brazilian Carnivale song but it was kinda fucked up.  It was about some salesman trying to convince a mom to buy her baby a banana, a papaya, some pajamas and a sombrero, but she was like “Who has infant-sombrero money in this economy?  Let’s go dancing!” (I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly) and I remember thinking, “Why would a baby need a sombrero?

(Side-note: I just googled” “Why would you buy a baby a sombrero?” and I got a lot of vaguely racist pictures, and also a link to a poem, which includes the lines “He had heard stories of a baby sombrero wrestler who would one day rule the world, but he had never thought that it would be his son” and “Hey, do you want to go get some soup, and maybe have a baby?” {Which might be the best pick-up line ever.  Or worst.  Depends on who you’re trying to pick up, I guess.})

Anyway, when I was in third grade I asked the music teacher why we didn’t just  sing the original Brazilian song, Mamãe eu Quero, (which I’d memorized from Carmen Miranda movies and old Tom & Jerry cartoons) but she shook her head disdainfully, saying only that there were “too many nipples in that song”.

I was confused about that for years, but in high school I told a friend that I knew the words to a risqué Brazilian nipple song, which I then sang.  She knew a little Portuguese, and she told me my song was about breastfeeding and that my pronunciation was atrocious.  Then I said, “Oh wait.  It gets worse” and I sang her the bastardized English version from my childhood music classes, and she was like, “What kind of racist bullshit is that?” and I said, “The extremely problematic kind taught to small children in the 70’s?”

Then she looked at me in confused bewilderment and I nodded in embarrassed agreement and said, “Honestly, I don’t understand it either.  I apologize on the behalf of white people.”  (Which is a phrase I should just put on a t-shirt because that shit needs to be said A LOT).  She gracefully accepted my apology and offered to teach me how to curse convincingly in Spanish if I agreed to never sing that song again.  Our cultural bridge was built on a shared love of profanity, and although I never mastered the accent to her satisfaction, I will forever treasure the phrase: “I SHIT ON EVERYTHING THAT MOVES!” which is easily the best thing to scream when you are stuck in traffic, or when the copier eats your overdue report, or when life is just being an asshole in general.


This was all before the internet existed so I had to take my friend’s word on the translation, but then my sister reminded me of that song again and so I decided to go online to try to translate the Portuguese version.

And here is the (probably horribly butchered) translation:

Mommy I want, mommy I want,
Mommy I want to suckle!
Give the nipple, give the nipple, give the nipple
Give the nipple so your baby won’t cry!

Sleep, son of my heart.
Take the bottle and join my dance party.
I have a sister, she’s called Anna.
She blinked so much she lost her eyelashes.

I look at the little ones, but this way
I’m sorry I’m not suckling.
I have a sister, she’s phenomenal.
She’s the boss and her husband’s an imbecile.

And now I’m even more confused, and I can’t get the fucked-up English version out of my head.  And (if you were also taught it as a small kid) it’s probably stuck in yours too now.


I am part of the problem.

PS.  Again, I would like to apologize on the behalf of white people.  Seriously.  White people fuck shit up for all of us.  Including white people.  It’s baffling.  I’m so sorry.  Let’s go get some soup and maybe have a baby.

For Japan

This post isn’t really a funny one and I apologize for that but it needs to be said so just bear with me a minute, okay?

I love Japan.  I’m not much of a traveler so it’s the only far-off place I’ve ever been and it holds a special place in my heart.  If you’ve read here long enough you know about the time that a young girl named Chicako volunteered to show me around Japan for free.  She didn’t know me and had no idea I had a blog but the people of Japan have such a strong feeling of civic duty and politeness that they regularly sign up to escort strangers around their city so they can practice their English.  She took me to her favorite local dives and sat patiently while sweet make-up artists made me into a prostitute (long story).  I met so many amazing people in my time in Japan and was almost embarrassed by how generous and selfless they were to a total stranger.  That’s why the earthquake and tsunami that struck there this week really hit home for me…because so many people I love are struggling there now.  And chance are, if you read this blog regularly, they’re people you love too.

You can’t always tell, but a lot of our regular commenters are in Japan.  They read.  They laugh.  They interact with you and me.  I usually have several hundred Japanese readers stop by on average.  In the past two days there’ve been only 40.  I hope to God that they’re all alive and well and are busy helping others and I wish I was there to help.  But I can’t be.  The only thing I can do is to donate to the Red Cross and Doctors without Borders and to encourage you to do the same.

They aren’t strangers.  They’re us.

PS. One of the easiest ways to donate is to text the word REDCROSS to 90999, and your $10 donation will just show up on your phone bill.  It’s crazy-easy and after you do it you’ll feel technologically savvy and philanthropic.

PPS.  We go back to the funny, fluffy stuff tomorrow.  Promise.

PPPS.  I’m including an old video of me eating Japanese boobie pudding as a small “thank you” for donating.  It’s really long because it was before I knew how to edit properly.  You totally have my permission to skip it because I realize my Minnie-Mouse voice clashes with my online persona.  Also, yes, my books are organized by color because that’s what normal people do.  Stop judging me.

I’m sending him a men’s 2X though because I don’t even think the Pope could pull off a baby-doll cut.

I’m supposed to be writing my weekly wrap-up but I’m too sleepy so instead I just made a t-shirt to send to the Pope so that he’s aware that James Garfield needs to be named the Patron Saint of Accidental Miracles.

(PS. If you want one for yourself just click this picture.)

Then I went to look up the Pope’s mailing address and this popped up:

I'm sure that ad is just a coincidence.

Comment of the day: I’ll try to work up a nice ejaculation to Saint James Garfield. That’s always a good thing to have when you’re a saint. A good ejaculation. It’s just a short prayer that you can say in one breath. But it works like an ad slogan. I’m good with ejaculations.

Saint James Garfield Ejaculation:

“Lord, grant me a cheerful disposition, and if I’m still an asshole then freeze my lips in a smile like James Garfield of Accidental Miracles. Amen.”

Say it like you mean it. ~ Fred Miller

James Garfield is a goddamn saint. Almost

It’s the day before Christmas Eve and the completely inadvertent Christmas miracle is still going on over here between people who are now matching themselves up since I’ve officially hit the brick wall of exhaustion.  If you want to help or need help you can comment by clicking here but for now lets get back to the ridiculousness fluffiness and offensive weirdness that probably none of us have missed at all.

I’ve been so swamped matching donors with people in need that yesterday was the first day that I got to do my own Christmas shopping and I’d ordered Hailey a Rapunzel doll but it didn’t come in so I went to Target and the Rapunzel walls were *totally* bare and I was all “THE COBBLER’S CHILDREN HAVE NO SHOES” but then my mom was all “OMG, just get her a barbie and we’ll tell her it’s Rapunzel, drama queen. She’s six, for God’s sake” so we picked out the least slutty barbie we could fine and Christmas was saved.

Then I got a call from this big Canadian network who asked if I could come to a studio for a live interview that night and I was all “I’m not good with geography but I’m pretty sure I can’t drive from Texas to Canada in 3 hours” and she said that she’d found a CBS station nearby that would do a live feed and I said I’d go but only if James Garfield could be interviewed with me because he was the one who started this whole thing and she didn’t exactly say no so Victor and I took off with the head of James Garfield to the news station.  James Garfield looked very happy as always but Victor kept glaring and sighing at me as he no doubt wondered how his life got like this and he kept asking if I was sure that all the news people knew I was bringing a giant boar head to be interviewed  and I was all “Of course they do” but I kept looking off when I said it because Victor can usually tell when I’m lying.  Then Victor carried James Garfield’s giant head into the newsroom and all the anchors were like “Um…so are you doing a story on taxidermy?” and I was all “No, this is the head of James Garfield and he’s performed two Christmas miracles.  If he performs one more we’re going to petition the Pope to give him sainthood.  True story.” and they were all “Of course you are” and Victor was like “STOP TALKING. YOU SOUND LIKE A CRAZY PERSON” and I was all “There is nothing I just said that isn’t the truth” and then the anchors started to walk off and I was all “He started a movement that gave $42,000 to people who needed Christmas Miracles!  CANADIAN TV IS SCOOPING YOU!” and then they nicely nodded and left to call security probably.

Quick note for anyone who hasn’t been here forever. James Garfield is what I named the giant, tattered, taxidermied head of a wild boar that I made my husband buy at an estate sale last year because James Garfield looked SO DAMN HAPPY.  Then every time Victor would walk in my office he’d huff that he couldn’t believe I’d spent $90 on James Garfield so I decided to make back the money to get Victor to shut up so I offered on my blog to make homemade Christmas Cards with James Garfield’s face on them saying things like “OH IT JUST GOT ALL KINDS OF MOTHERFUCKIN’ FESTIVE IN HERE, Y’ALL” for $10 each.  I made back the $90 and made so much extra that I got carpal tunnel and was able to donate a few hundred dollars to a fellow blogger recovering from a stroke.  She wasn’t doing well at the time but now she’s kicking as much ass as you can from a wheelchair (which is a shitload, apparently).  Probably due to the James Garfield cards if I had to give my professional medical opinion.  MIRACLE NUMBER ONE.

Then this year people asked for James Garfield cards but I was too tired to make them so I just put them on zazzle and I was shocked to find that $600 of cards were sold so Victor and I decided that since we were so lucky this year we’d give $30 gift certificates to the first 20 people who left a comment saying they needed help getting Christmas for their children.  When more requests flooded in a reader stepped up and offered to help the 21st person and then another and another and then it avalanched into hundred of strangers sending hundreds of strangers over $42,000 in toys, food, car seats and more.    MIRACLE NUMBER TWO.

And that’s why James Garfield was with me when I went on air and what’s really awesome is that I did the entire interview standing next to the enthusiastically jolly head of James Garfield and no one ever explained why they hell he was there. So everyone watching in Canada who didn’t know the backstory was all “Why is there a giant boar head there and why is that girl introducing him as James Garfield?”  Even the host seemed a bit baffled.  WHICH WAS AWESOME.

You can watch the video of the whole thing by clicking here.

Also, when I’m really, really exhausted my eyes get dry and stick together and it looks like I have a nervous tick or that I’m sending morse code signals to terrorists.  I assure you, I don’t even know morse code.

PS.  From my sister:  “I always knew one day you would make International news, but I always assumed it would involve some sort of horrific accident.”  Dude. You and me both.

And then they asked if I’d like to interview Santa Claus. That happened.

A few days ago a PR agency asked if I’d like to do a live video interview with Santa and was like “You have obviously never read me. OF COURSE I’LL DO A LIVE, UNSCRIPTED INTERVIEW WITH SANTA CLAUS WHERE I CAN ASK HIM ANYTHING WITH NO REPERCUSSIONS” and then I felt a little bad for the company because it was pretty clear they had no idea what they were getting themselves into and I considered asking Santa all serious questions about healthcare reform and abortion rights just to see how he’d react but I don’t actually know enough about those topics to ask legitimate questions about them so instead I decided to just see if I could get Santa to say something vaguely inappropriate within the first four minutes and by minute two he was all “I. DO. NOT. watch ANYONE getting undressed, Jenny“.  And technically he was just saying that to defend himself, but still? I count that as a win.

There’s a video right here but it’s really hard to hear me so I’m just going to share my questions here:

1. When I was eight I asked you to kidnap my sister and replace her with a puppy and I got the puppy but I still have my sister. Do I need to send her to you or drop her off somewhere?

2. In an epic battle for world domination between zombies and unicorns, who would win?

3. Do you ever get mad that you have to share the spotlight with Jesus?

4. You know that song that goes “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake”?   Are you also watching me when I’m getting undressed? Because lately I’ve been undressing under a tarp and it’s kind of uncomfortable.

5. Can you tell me about your sack? Just how big is it?

6. Do the elves mind if you call them “elves” or do you have to call them “little people?”

Overall, Santa handled it like a pro but Mrs. Claus looked a little pissed.  Probably because some strange woman was asking her husband to describe his sack.

PS. My favorite clarification from Santa: “If you’re being naughty naked, I’m not looking.”


I can't tell if she's clutching her pearls or pulling out a shiv. Either way, she scares me.

James Garfield is currently on the floor beside me because I can’t find a stud in the wall to hang him but it’s nice because it looks like he’s bursting through the basement, which is awesome because we don’t even *have* a basement so basically James Garfield is making my house seem bigger WITHOUT EVEN TRYING.

This year we couldn’t take a real family vacation so we’re taking Hailey to see her cousins and Disney Land for a few days so I’ll be vaguely MIA starting tomorrow because every time I pull out my phone to get on the internet Victor will huff at me accusingly and so I’ll have to duck into the bathroom a lot to approve comments surreptitiously and then Victor will yell at me for drinking too much and I’ll be all “WELL MAYBE I HAVE A BLADDER INFECTION, ASSHOLE” and then he’ll insist that we go to the Disney emergency room to check it out because he won’t believe me and we’ll miss all the parades because I’m too busy peeing in a specimen cup all because my husband doesn’t understand the importance of social media.

But while I’m gone you can check out two things.  First off, this. The comments on this post made me cry…but in the best way possible.

Secondly, a ton of people have asked if I’m making James Garfield Christmas cards again this year and the short answer is “sort of?”

A short summary for those of you who are new here this year:   Last year I became obsessed with the head of a badly deteriorated, taxidermied Wild Boar which Victor refused to buy for me. I named him James Garfield.  Then James Garfield was threatened with dismemberment in a horrific emotional ransom attempt and I may have freaked out a little and then Victor grudgingly rescued him like some kinda goddamn American hero.  Then I sold James Garfield-esque Christmas cards to make back the money we spent on him so Victor that would stop glaring at me every time he looked at James Garfield and then so many people bought them that James Garfield made more than I did that month than I did, although he did inadvertently cause an international financial crisis which made a several Canadians seriously inappropriately furious.  Quite a few of you have asked if you can buy James Garfield Christmas cards this year but I suck and I’m crazy behind on everything so I’m farming it out.  But if you want to send Christmas cards to your family with photos of the happiest fucking dead boar in the world I totally have your back.  You can order your Christmas cards by clicking here.

A few examples:

I also made a non-James Garfield blank holiday card which you can use to warn your coworkers and family that you’re not putting up with their crazy bullshit this year.  It’s my personal Christmas card but I thought I’d share because I’m generous that way.  You. Are. Welcome.

Special note to burglars: I’ll be back Sunday but my house will be protected by my heavily-armed, entertainingly-unstable Bohemian father who pulls entrails out of dead things for a living.  This is what we have instead of an alarm.

Comment of the day: This makes me want to send out Christmas cards. No, wait. This makes me want to buy something dead and decorate it for the holidays. I wonder how much Bea Arthur costs.  ~ alonewithcats

Update: For some reason my zazzle store hates me and the Mullet Tov card keeps randomly disappearing.  I blame anti-Semitic shoplifters.  Anyway, if one of the ten products doesn’t show up in my store the individual links are here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here.  Get your shit together, Zazzle.

Random Ramblings of an Insomniac: Boobquakes, dangerous squirrels, things we already knew about men

I have insomnia so I’m getting a head-start on National #Boobquake Day; a day when women are encouraged to wear their most immodest outfit to see if immodest women do, in fact, cause earthquakes as reported by Iranian media.  Apparently this is a real concern.  So I put on my most low-cut corset and used my computer camera to take some pictures but my cat kept getting in the way and I was all “WHY MUST YOU BE IN EVERY PICTURE?” and then Victor woke up and wanted to know why I was screaming and taking half-naked pictures of myself and I was all “Uh…it’s an experiment to see if my boobs can create earthquakes?” and Victor just stared at me and shook his head in confusion and shuffled back to bed and I’m all “I’M DOING THIS FOR SCIENCE, ASSHOLE“.

It was weird though because I always heard that it was girls who didn’t understand science.

The boobs are real. The hair? Not so much.

Also, I just realized that my cat has a ton of nipples that are never covered so I guess technically she should actually be part of this experiment too.  Touché, cat.

You can't really see any of our nipples but I assure you, they're all totally there.

PS. If this does, in fact, cause some sort of horrible earthquake then I blame the cat who has like 4 times as many nipples as me.  Honestly, it’s like she wants to cause an earthquake.  That cat’s kind of a dick.


A few weeks ago I linked to a post on Alone with Cats and the chick that writes it sent me a very sweet, unexpected thank you card filled with cursing, threats of violence and tips on befriending wealthy, dying relatives and there was a tiny package under the card and inside the package was was the single greatest, random, bizarre gift that I’ve ever received:

Introducing: Grover Cleveland.

Yes, people. It’s a dead, stuffed gambling squirrel holding a tiny pistol and when I pulled it out Victor said “Oh, what the fuck now?” and I was all “This, Victor, is what happens when you make a difference in people’s lives” and then he made me put it out in the garage with James Garfield because apparently our real estate agent thinks having hilariously awesome taxidermied animals in your house scares off prospective buyers.  I prefer to think that we’re hiding them so that buyers won’t assume that they come with the house because really? They totally tie the fucking room together.


Google suggestions once again makes me weep for humanity while inadvertently nailing the difference between the sexes:

These questions might be related. Just a thought.


Feels like there should be a fourth random thing here.  Something about badgers or pandas, maybe.  Or badgers mixed with pandas.  I think my sleeping pills are kicking in.  Ooh, leprechauns…

Comment of the day: When my dad died, we had him cremated at Cress Funeral Home, aka “The Taxidermy Museum”.  I think you would appreciate its charm although I’m undecided if mourning enhances or detracts from the experience of seeing dead squirrels ride bicycles and perform topless dances. We may need to perform an experiment to determine the effects of grief on taxidermy appreciation. Fortunately, I’m a chick, so I totally get science. ~ Sarah P.


I just went to brush my teeth but we were out of toothpaste so I pulled out this tiny little travel tube that the stewardess gave me when I went to Japan and it’s the size of a hamster femur so I squeezed it all out onto the toothbrush and then I started to feel really sorry for the people who live in Japan because that shit is awful.  Then it got worse and worse and it started making my mouth all dry and sticky and when I tried to spit it out it was sticking to my teeth and  and I wondered if maybe toothpaste can go bad in Japan so I looked at the tube to see if it had an expiration date and that’s when I realized that I had just brushed my teeth with FUCKING EYELASH GLUE. No shit, people.  Like, the glue you use to keep fake eyelashes on.  And then I panicked because I was afraid that I was going to die or that my teeth were going to get glued together and so I opened my mouth as wide as it would go and looked on the internet for “Will eating eyelash glue kill you?” and the internet was all “Um…maybe?” so I went on twitter and asked them and everyone was like “This is twitter, dude.  Not poison control.  What the fuck is wrong with you?” and they had a point but I didn’t want to call poison control, both because I’d have to explain that I just ate eyelash glue and also because I didn’t know if I could talk on the phone without accidentally closing my mouth and then I started to worry that if I went to sleep I might wake up dead or with my teeth permanently glued together and then I’d have to pretend that I somehow caught contagious lockjaw because there’s no way in hell that I was going to confess to Victor that I’d accidentally brushed my teeth with glue.  So then I called the ASPCA because they were very helpful a few months ago when Barnaby Jones Pickles ate that bottle of homeopathic cold meds but they told me that they didn’t give medical advice to humans and I told them that that seemed vaguely racist and they insisted that I call poison control.  So I did.  And they were dicks.

I mean, technically they were very nice but I had to explain the problem like three times before they finally seemed to understand the situation and then they assured me that eyelash glue was non-toxic and that I’d be fine but they kept asking me why I’d done it and every time I’d explain they’d say that they didn’t understand and I assumed they were making a tape of all of this to play to their friends later or possibly  they honestly just couldn’t understand what I was saying since I wasn’t using my lips so that they wouldn’t get glued to my teeth.  I tried to explain that to them but there was a lot of silence on their end so I finally just hung up.  It’s bad enough I just ate a bunch of glue, poison control.  I don’t need your damn judgement.

PS.  I just woke Victor up to tell him what happened so that he could check to make sure I’m still breathing every few hours and Victor rolled over and said something about how I brought this on myself because “who the fuck confuses glue with toothpaste?”  Well, obviously *I* do, Victor.  Way to blame the victim, asshole.


PPPS.  This post is probably full of typos and run-on sentences and I’m sorry about that but I JUST GOT FUCKING POISONED, Y’ALL.  It’s kind of heroic that I’m even able to write this post at all, you guys.  If anything, I deserve a goddam medal.

Obviously Japan is trying to kill me. Probably. This is exactly like Pearl Harbor, but worse because I got vaguely poisoned AND I'm out of eyelash glue. So it's like a double tragedy. Plus, I don't even know where the fake eyelashes this glue goes to are but when I do find then they'll be totally useless. Worst. Day. Ever.

Comment of the day: You’re right. Medical professionals are often nosy and judgmental. I almost cut my hand off with a skilsaw one time (severed 3 tendons), and after the surgeon assessed the damage, he was like, “and what’s with this?” as he motioned toward his own eye. I was like, “With what? What the fuck is this?” motioning toward my own eye. “The black eye,” he says. I forgot that I had gotten a black eye a couple days earlier when my dog headbutted me while we were wrestling. I explained and he gave me that look that says, “I know your game, you goddamn shiftless tweaker. You’ll do anything to get on disability, won’t you? Well, you’re not gonna get away with it this time, buddy boy.”   But I totally did. ~ beta dad

I’m on a lot of painkillers, part 2

Okay.  So turns out that my finger is broken, but only in the way that the rest of me is broken, i.e., no bones are shattered but it’s still technically fucked up and useless.  Thus, I’ve had to type everything this week using one hand and I deserve a medal for this.  But I have to write down part two of my cruise experience because I’m on a lot of painkillers and if I don’t do it soon I’m not going to remember it.  If you’re finding this blog for the first time ever I recommend reading Part 1 first because this is going to be confusing for even my most ardent reader.  Or maybe just skip all this and go look at pictures of kittens.  Your choice.

Day 2:  So we arrived someplace in the Bahamas, I think?  And then we took another boat to some other place but I don’t know the name of it.  God, I should work for the Travel Channel.  The important thing here is that we ended up on a tiny pirate island filled with dolphins and crumbling 100 year old towers and rumors of buried treasure.  It was awesome until we were packing up to leave and Hailey got lost for the first time ever and I had a panic attack that I still haven’t recovered from.

"Look mommy! My shadow is a monster! Also, get your xanax out because as soon as you turn around I'm going to run back to the boat and hide in there because your panic attacks amuse me." She didn't say that last sentence out loud but it was totally implied.

Day 3:  Hailey begged me to let her go to the on-board kids camp so I dropped her off and on my way back to the room I realized that I’d lost my lipstick, which is a HUGE FUCKING DEAL.  I have to have lipstick on at all times or I feel naked so I went to the gift shop to buy some, except the cheapest tube they had was exactly the price of an unlucky number that I avoid at all costs so I asked the clerk if I she could charge me a dollar extra and she said no because she wants the ship to sink, apparently.  I told her that I’d just give her a tip and she said she wasn’t allowed to take one which is ridiculous because I’m supposed to tip the waitress who brings me over-priced drinks but I’m not allowed to tip a clerk who might very well be keeping the entire ship from sinking by simply not making me have to use that unlucky number?  I explained that that was totally ridiculous and she agreed although I’m not sure if she agreed for the same reasons and she recommended that I buy the only other tube of lipstick they had, which was $35 but I felt pretty certain that Victor would probably sink the boat intentionally out of spite if he found out I’d spent $35 on a lipstick because of a phobia, so instead I bought the unlucky number lipstick and then I promptly ripped off my thumbnail trying to open the lipstick package.  I blame Victor for this since the $35 lipstick would never have caused this sort of injury.  It was bleeding profusely and the clerk offered to call the ship doctor but I waived it off because it was kind of a relief to know that my bad luck was probably over and also because I knew that if I didn’t go lay down I was going to pass out because that’s what happens whenever I see blood.  So I quickly walked back to the elevator to take me to my room but my thumb was bleeding like mad by that time and there was a small puddle of blood beside me when another couple walked up and looked at it warily.  “Someone spilled their wine” I explained, both because it sounded more festive and also because I didn’t know if they passed out at the site of blood too and I didn’t want all of us passing out at once into a puddle of my blood because that’s unsanitary and also because it would look like some kind of drive-by shooting to whoever found us and that didn’t seem fair to anyone.

Then I got back to the room and used the head of a creepy towel animal as a tourniquet and drank some booze from the mini-bar which I know was over-priced but I was in pain and it was medicinal so stop judging me.  Then I sat down and read a book where the swanky main character toasts to the furniture and I was all “That’s awesome.  I never drink to furniture” so I toasted to the coffee table and the lounge chair and I felt very cosmopolitan but then I reread the paragraph and it turns out she was toasting to the “future”, which makes more sense but is incredibly dull.  Then I toasted the buffet and took horrific pictures of my mutilated thumbnail so I could show Victor what he’d done to me while he was out having a work meeting.   I might have had too much to drink.  Again, I blame Victor.

Day 4:  We’re supposed to be flying home but we have 7 hours before our flight so at the airport we found a guy who said he’d be happy to take us on a tour around Miami.  Because there’s nothing safer than getting into a car with a stranger who hangs around the airport.

Summary of the tour:  “Look kid!  A horsey!”

Hailey, horsey, little Havana.

“And there’s Humphrey Bogart in a car.  For some reason.”

I don't know either, y'all.

“And here’s the shop where you can buy all your animal penises.  I’ll be back to pick you guys up in few hours.”

Yeah. Go back and read that again.  It’s not a typo.

So was the raccoon giant or is the penis giant? Because I can't tell which noun is being modified. The cashier didn't know either and seemed surprised I was even asking her about penis bones. Obviously she doesn't read my blog. Also, YOU WORK IN A SHOP THAT SELLS PENISES. Know your shit, lady.

No shit, y'all. I can't even make this stuff up.

And I didn’t buy any of the penises because I’d already fell in love with Pocahontas Wikipedia who was hiding on a back shelf but I couldn’t afford him so instead I bought a bunch of necklaces with dead bugs in them.  This is when Victor threatened to cancel my credit card because he doesn’t understand art.

Why yes, they *are* totally bad-ass.

In short?  Best Miami tour ever.  And none of us got stabbed.  Bonus.

Comment of the day: Through a weird series of events, I actually own a raccoon penis bone, still in its original package… wait, let me rephrase that, still sealed in a little plastic bag. (The *original* original package would be a dead raccoon’s penis, which would be a weird thing to have lying around the house.) Anyway, I have no use for the damn thing, so it’s yours if you want it.  Also, I need to stop reading your blog at work, because screaming things like, “Oh my God, I’ve got a raccoon penis bone!” never fails to draw concerned looks from my employees. ~ Evn

I’m on a lot of painkillers

So last weekend Victor’s company had a family retreat on a cruise-ship, which would have been nice if I wasn’t terrified of water, giant squid, flying and fucking everything else involved in this trip.  Still, you can’t say no to a free family vacation (because Victor wouldn’t let me) so we packed up and headed to Miami.  Then when I was getting on the plane Hailey said “Look.  A pirate” and I started to shush her because last time she did that she was pointing at an elderly woman who had a hook for a hand but then I looked up and there was a motherfucking pirate on the plane.  Then I tweeted that out because how do you not share something like that with the rest of the world and of course no one believed me so I tried to take pictures but he’d already sat down so when we hit Miami I planted myself in front of the airplane doors so I could get a shot of him and Victor was yelling at me to hurry up and I was all “PEOPLE ARE QUESTIONING MY INTEGRITY ON TWITTER SO BACK OFF, DUDE” and he sighed grumpily but just then the pirate came out and I got a blurry camera phone picture of him.  Then a lot of people on twitter apologized for doubting me but several pointed out that he was more likely dressed as a patriot for a Tea-bagger convention and then I just felt betrayed and I was all “Fucking Republicans ruin shit for everybody” and Victor was all “You know what would be nice?  If just one family vacation didn’t end with you blaming Republicans” and I was all “This is why nobody trusts Republicans, Victor” and then he made me promise not to talk to anyone at his company about anything ever.  Apparently he forgot about that because as soon as we got to the hotel he asked me to go help his coworker stuff notebooks for the retreat which was just a horrible suggestion.  Victor’s coworker and her husband asked if I’d gone down to the ocean yet and I said that I couldn’t really appreciate it because I kept thinking about all the dead bodies in the water and they both got really quiet and I was all “You guys do watch Dexter, right?” And they were all “Oh, yeah. Dexter’s great.”  But then later I found out that they don’t have cable and they thought I was talking about Dexter’s Laboratory. True story, y’all. Victor’s coworkers thought I was freaked out about a cartoon character dumping corpses in the Miami bay. Awesome.

When we were done I walked back downstairs to our hotel room and if you looked out our front door and to the left while you stood on our suitcase you could almost see the ocean, so yeah, it was a pretty great room.  Also, the walls were paper thin and around midnight Victor and I were still working on our laptops while Hailey slept when suddenly the room next to us was filled with the voices of four drunken men who were so loud it was like they were in the room with us.


me: Wow.

Loud drunks next door:  “YOU ARE SO MONEY AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW IT, MAN!”

me:  Awesome.  I’ve just entered the set of Swingers.


This is when I called man at the front desk and asked him to tell the guys in 112 to keep it down and also to tell them that everyone in room 110 agrees that that skank does not deserve him except for the 5 year old who now wants to know what a skank is and the front desk guy said that he’d call the room immediately and tell them that but then he totally didn’t and do you know how I know? Because I can hear their phone, Best Western. You guys are fucking liars.

The next morning we boarded the ship and I had a mild panic attack as we got ready to be called to our muster station for an emergency drill, because there’s nothing more calming than acting out a scene from the Titanic as soon as you get on a ship.  Hailey loved it though and carried around her lifejacket yelling “This mustard is awesome!” and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t even know where to start correcting her.  Then the person doing the drill assured us that there were plenty of lifeboats which were made out of a material that makes them “unsinkable” and first of all you shouldn’t say “unsinkable” on a cruise ship because didn’t you learn anything from the Titanic? and secondly why didn’t they make the cruise ship out of the same material?  No one had an answer.  Then they showed us pictures of stuff to do on the cruise and one of the things was to get your picture made in front of A BACKDROP FROM TITANIC and I was all “Are you fucking kidding me?” and no, they totally weren’t.  Then we sailed off toward the Bermuda Triangle.  None of this is made up.

This is where I would type the rest of the story because it involves bloodloss and penises in boxes but I can’t because my finger hurts and I think it might be broken so I’m going in for more xrays in the morning.  Also, I’m on a lot of painkillers. Have I mentioned that?  To be continued.  Probably.

It's very relaxing if you don't think about all the dead bodies and giant squid and sea serpents who want to drag you down to a watery grave. Totally, totally relaxing.

Comment of the day: Why, exactly were you “fucking everything else involved in this trip”?   I can understand why Victor was upset. ~ Mojo